Diablo: Ages of Lies, Terror and Destruction
by TrialLunatic
Summary: Chapters based on the quests in both Diablo and Diablo II, under author's perspective. Find out how, in trying times where Evil swarmed, Good finds a way to prevail.


- Disclaimer: Diablo and Diablo II are owned by Blizzard Entertainment. Though some of the characters and quests, including some locations and objects are originally made by Blizzard, the characters' personalities and other events are made up by the author. The main story line follows that of Diablo and Diablo II. In short, this is just to say that I don't want any trouble by writing this fan fiction.  
  
*Note: Each chapter corresponds to a quest. What are going to differentiate this fic from the rest of my fics are its main qualities for being incredibly elongated and its tendency to stretch as it goes.  
  
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Chapter One: The Butcher  
  
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The night was dark and the weather foul. An obscure and monstrously large mass had engulfed the skies, ever spreading over and consuming it, depriving the eager stargazers below of their routine observations. Without mercy, it had cast upon the village below its wrath, furiously pouring the tears of God as if the almighty Lord himself had been crying for Tristam's misfortune for weeks. That or with most possibly the wishes of drowning the place to spare it from further torment. Of course, on a night such as this, there would be no stargazers outside, nor would any living being foolish enough to remain outside, for anyone who dared to venture out of their shelters would undoubtedly suffer an inhumane death.  
  
Outside the village, miles away, a black mare galloped, its hooves repeatedly and consistently beating the muddy ground which seemed to slither on its own. It was speeding down a path found in the open plains where no tree, grass or even weed had grown for years.  
  
The animal ran urgently and with purpose never fearing what may lay ahead, seeming as if it would never halt before any obstacle unless it was insurmountable. On top of the mare sat the master, to whom the beast was unconditionally allegiant. The master's form was indistinguishable. One could not tell much safe that it might have been human. At the moment he or she was entirely wrapped in heavy cloak which was as dark as the night itself yet flowing like the wind.  
  
They traveled down the winding path, defying the rage of the atmospheric anomalies that were crashing down on them. Both the figure shielded by its nightly cloak and its steed have been through much worse but have prevailed nonetheless; nothing was going to stop them on this night.  
  
The village could be spotted from afar - a distant grouping of fragile wooden structures that somehow have managed to outlast the unkind years - but it could easily take hours before the two braving the night would eventually meet with their destination. On nights like these, tricks could easily be played on the sight, even if it were just by nature itself.  
  
The horse had already incredibly shortened the distance in between and as it rode on fiercely, its master sat leaning against the wind, gazing warily across the horizons for any unpredictability. Up ahead, there were nothing save for a few lingering trees.  
  
The only reason for a tree's lingering presence in these damned lands was simply because it has grown immense with years, its roots running deep and its branches sprouting thickly, making it hard to be taken down. Something so old would not go down easily, or willingly. Yet, despite its many years of lasting, the majority of branches were bare and the bark was dry and cracking. Having not been nourished for so long, it would be barely alive.  
  
The fury of the storm had abruptly brought about a blinding strike of lightning, aiming accurately for one of the trees that still stayed planted in the dead soil. The tree was struck with the equivalent force of the feared Norse god Thor himself, rammed into the trunk violently, ripping it from its roots and casting it in splinters. The force of the impact had brought the upper carcass to break from the bottom and was flung savagely onto the path, right before the galloping mare. She neighed and reared as her master pulled tightly on the bridle's reins, bringing her to a jerking stop.  
  
"Ho, Streak." The figure pronounced.  
  
The mare heeded and calmed down once her front hooves dropped onto the soggy ground, her heavy breaths now appeared in white puffs of vapor due to the dampening cold. The robed figure sat silently upon the mare as the rain continued to pour on them; neither was distracted as the rain maintained its steady fall. It seemed to be observing and analyzing what had just taken place, but its face was far too shrouded in shadows for anyone who would've been there to tell. Then with another jerk of the reins, the figure brought her mare to contour the fallen tree and continued their daring journey.  
  
Bizarrely, as they have reached the path on the other side of the fallen tree, the town seemed to have neared. What should've taken hours to reach on steed took but an hour to travel.  
  
As the cloaked figure and the mare trotted within the village gates, they finally slowed to a stop. Getting off and tying the horse to a sturdy tree, the figure petted and patted the four legged creature in encouragement and in thanks.  
  
Then the figure began to walk, moving towards the nearest inhabited wooden dwelling. Despite the murderous weather, the door to the habitat was open and from inside came bright flickering shades of yellow and orange. Stepping onto the creaking porch, and then under the roofing, the figure finally pushed the hood back, revealing long flowing red hair, tied back into a low ponytail by an old colorless ribbon. Her facial features were delicate, though not in a way of suggesting what she was harmless or innocent. Her lively green eyes caught sight of a single figure sitting inside of the large wooden house as she knocked politely on the open door. The amulet that hung from her neck fell out of her cloak, easily suggesting that she was a Rogue, a sacred member of the Sisterhood's Guild. It was a clan composed of female warriors who have dedicated their lives to fight against the forces of evil. Rogues were also rivals of Amazons, another tribe of female warriors who were wilder in the ways of war and poorer in the terms of moral.  
  
A large middle aged bald man sat on a stool that was too small for him turned around at the sound of knocking and frowned, standing up at the sight of an outlander. He was a husky man, his frame easily qualified as wide compared to any other normal male of his age. Despite that and his age, he moved with ease, his large muscular arms being the most catching aspect of his physiology. His height towered imposingly over that of the newly arrived woman. The only thing indicating the melanin level in him was his thick black frowning eyebrows.  
  
As she stepped in, she saw that the stool he was previously on was settled in front of a large hearth, where fire was eating away pieces of dry wood gingerly yet eagerly. The fire radiated light and warmth in return.  
  
Between the hearth and the stool sat an anvil, indicating to her the giant man was probably a blacksmith for it was a most indispensable tool for men of those duties. There were also various tools and pieces of metal hanging on the walls. Some were half confectioned weapons and some parts of armory.  
  
With but a single glance, the Rogue saw the apprehension in the smith's eyes and could tell that people in this village were paranoid and suspicious, as they should have every right to be.  
  
"What can I do for you?" The giant man asked, walking towards a counter with a big hammer in hand. It would remain to be seen whether he just happened to be holding it, or was keeping it close as a failsafe.  
  
"I'm looking for the town called Tristam." She said, not shifting one bit.  
  
"You found it, though I'd advise you not to linger." The man answered, as he put a couple of smaller tools away, now leaving the hammer alone. He then added, while eyeing the Rogue, "Tis not a safe place to be."  
  
"I seek Deckard Cain." She continued, as if not hearing the man's insinuated heed.  
  
"Who are you and what business might you have with him?" the blacksmith said, now raising an eyebrow distrustfully.  
  
"My given name is Cassandra. I bring word from a friend of Cain the Elder's." She answered him accordingly.  
  
Her gaze never left the man's and her eyes revealed nothing save for the fact that she was serious, telling the truth and that she didn't want to waste time.  
  
"Ah, in that case." the blacksmith said, his attitude softening, rubbing the top of his bald head. "My name's Griswold. Apologies for the rude welcoming, m'lady. Tristam hasn't exactly been normal lately." He said as he bowed slightly.  
  
"I understand. Now if you could please direct me to Cain?"  
  
"Of course." Griswold answered as he came out from behind the counter and headed for the door.  
  
The rain was still pouring outside as Griswold stepped out of his shop, heading for what seemed to be the center of town, towards a water fountain. To Cassandra's surprise, even on a day such as this, the man who was no doubt Cain was standing by the town's water fountain. This must be a place where he would usually be found, for he was an important figure that many villagers depended on.  
  
"Cassandra here says she's got a message from a friend of yours." Griswold said, pointing his thumb to the following Rogue as they got close to Cain.  
  
"Thank you, Griswold." Cain replied calmly, greeting Cassandra with a weak smile.  
  
The large bald man nodded in return and turned around to head back for his smith's house, not even the slightest curious about what the newcomer might bring to the Elder. It wasn't any of his business and in times like these minding one's own bones would prove to be a wise choice. Cain was the one who started talking:  
  
"So you say you bring words from a friend, Cassandra." He said her name as if weighing the syllables, "Please," he gestured for the Rogue to tell him.  
  
"I bring words from Heather," Cassandra started, observing the somewhat surprised reaction on Cain's face; good, he knew who Heather was. "I have been sent to deal with your troubles." She finished, taking out a scroll from under her cloak and handing it to Cain.  
  
Cain took it and read it carefully, his initially relieved expression suddenly shifted into confusion. The rain still poured, but neither Cassandra nor Cain had bothered to notice.  
  
"I'm glad that you could've arrived with such haste but. there must be a mistake. With the problems we have here. Well, we need at least an entire army." Cain said, somewhat hesitantly, his thick brows now arched in worry. "Not a lone warrior."  
  
"There was no mistake. Heather has always been a good judge of things. She no doubt trusted that I could deal with the Butcher in the Dungeons accordingly by myself." Cassandra answered, not revealing the least of her personal thoughts.  
  
Cain's worried face became somber as if he already knew the woman before her was going to die. Cassandra looked at him, puzzled by this reaction. The old man began to pace around the water fountain, hands behind his back. Finally he stopped, looking at her. At that moment she saw fear replacing wisdom in his eyes.  
  
"My dead child," His words seem to falter, "There's more than just the Butcher down there." The old man said, all of a sudden looking very old and fragile.  
  
"It does not matter, I wish to put a stop to the slaughters and I feel confident enough that I could do it." She replied with that same heartless tone.  
  
"Then at least have a nights rest, Cassandra. Your journey must have been long." He conceded, "And I beg you to let me introduce you to someone that could be of use tomorrow morning."  
  
She nodded to him as she began retreating.  
  
"Very well, Deckard Cain."  
  
=========================================================================  
  
That night, Cassandra had brought Streak to Ogden's stables and settled into one of the poorly furnished rooms herself. While she slept, talk had been going around town among those who were still awake. About her. She was the mysterious figure. They talked about how she entered her room, shut the door and hadn't produced a single sound since. There was also talk about what had been hidden underneath that cloak of hers, since all that hadn't been shield by it was her head.  
  
And while the villagers talked, the rain would still pour on. It seemed to have taken mercy on the town for once that night however, and have quieted down just a notch.  
  
The next morning, Cassandra, still cloaked, stepped out of Ogden's and took a walk around town. Streak was left back at the tavern front while she familiarized herself with the village and its layout. As she walked, she studied the villagers around her; most of them looked at her as though they considered her a threat while some merely contented themselves with shutting their doors and windows when she passed near their dwellings, not even wanting to look. Finally, as the murky dawn became the murky morning, Cassandra had finally found her way back to the fountain. Cain was still there, surprisingly. It was as if he had never left at all, with those eyes that looked at her as if he had been expecting her.  
  
"Good morrow, I hope you slept well." Cain started while she nodded in return. "I have someone to present you to, a friend, who may prove useful to you on your quest."  
  
Cain had expected a reaction on Cassandra's part but she simply looked at him with that calm demeanor she always had. So after clearing his throat, he gestured for her to follow. The two walked towards the southern side of the village, an area the Rogue hadn't visited yet. The trail they took led up to a small group of large tents, and Cain stopped at the first one.  
  
"Wait here." Cain ordered gently as he entered the tent, leaving Cassandra outside for the moment.  
  
The mild rain started pouring harder once again, as instants went by.  
  
Finally, the elder man exited the tent with another woman. This woman was a head shorter than him, skinny and pale. Both her hair and the revealing long dress she wore were black. She had this strange look in her eyes, as if she were constantly seeing something other than what was truly in front of her. That had been the way she had looked at Cassandra at first. She finally caught Cassandra's eyes in a normal manner when Cain finally presented her as Adria the Witch.  
  
"I have been expecting your arrival for some time now, Rogue Cassandra, but I fear that you are two days late." Adria said.  
  
Seeing the puzzled looks on Cassandra and Cain's faces, she sighed and entered her tent, beckoning them to follow her in.  
  
The interior of the tent looked a lot more spacious then the outer appearance had let on. While Adria handed each of them a mug of tea she personally brewed, she invited them to sit on her strange looking furniture.  
  
"Has something bad happened?" Inquired Cain concerned.  
  
"Something bad is always happening, Deckard. but something even worse has occurred. Kathleen had gone to the dungeons."  
  
"Alone?"  
  
Adria nodded mournfully. "She hasn't returned for the settings of two suns."  
  
"Why haven't I heard of this?"  
  
"Because I thought she would be back before the Rogue arrives."  
  
Adria turned away, full of sorrow and guilt, but wanting to distract herself with another brew she was preparing. The room was suddenly plunged into a morose mood as Adria stirred the wooden spoon that was in the cauldron hung over open fire.  
  
"Who is Kathleen?" Cassandra asked.  
  
"She was the one whom I had wanted you to meet." Cain turned to her, talking in almost a whisper.  
  
"Is she the one who would help me on my quest down in the dungeons?"  
  
"She is."  
  
Silence followed and was only met by the vacant stirring from the witch's cauldron and the droning of billions of water drops hitting the exterior of the tent.  
  
"I don't understand. If she were to accompany me to the dungeons anyway, why would it be bad for her to go down two days ago?"  
  
"Two days ago, it had been exactly on the Day of Martyr." Adria explained. "For far too long has the Butcher set the Day of Martyr at every five sun downs. On this day, he would claim any soul that dared roam near the dungeons no matter how bold they may be. Kathleen had gone down herself, hoping to stop the Butcher, having been unable to wait any longer for your arrival."  
  
Though Adria tried to not make it sound accusing, Cassandra had long sensed the targeting tone in her voice and chose to ignore it. This Kathleen and the sorceress must've been close.  
  
"Who is this Butcher?" She asked, wondering who could've held so much power and transpired so much fear.  
  
"You cannot associate human qualities to such grotesque creatures, Rogue. The horrible deeds the Butcher has committed made him nothing more than a sadistic predator."  
  
"Then I shall linger no more, and be on my way to find Kathleen." Cassandra concluded, having heard enough.  
  
She got up and exited the tent, immediately stepping into the massive shower again, but the water only soaked her cloak and not her armor. Cain followed out a bit after, and called out to her.  
  
"The Dungeon's is on the north-east side of the town." He started slowly. "Be cautious and please bring Kathleen back." Then he went back into the tent.  
  
=========================================================================  
  
Moments later, Cassandra found herself stepping down an ancient flight of stairs, covered by cobwebs, dust, mildew, fragments of bones and other things that got left behind and accumulated after centuries of abandon. Her green sharp eyes scanned about in the darkness with trained keenness, while she recalled that just a few moments ago, the fear in the voice of the pleading and dying man at the front of the dungeon, begging her to stop the terrors below.  
  
The Butcher was a monster indeed, if not in form, then in his contorted soul.  
  
Strangely, the entire place was built beneath ground level, as if the ones who had built it have chosen to remain as far from the surface and the sun as possible. But had the dungeon always been like this? Or had it gone through transformations after its invasion by the dark forces?  
  
Those were questions to be pondered later. She had a mission now, though altered it might have been, she would still accomplish it.  
  
Cracking resounded beneath her feet and Cassandra looked down, realizing she had crushed a fragment of bone, which must've belonged to someone who was once a living being. Muttering, she pronounced a few words in a strange language and an insistent, yet gentle light began radiating from her armor, providing her with a source of illumination which would, at least, dissipate some of the darkness around her.  
  
Now that she was easy target, she prepared her bow and hooked an arrow onto it, determined to not be an easy prey as well.  
  
The stony hallway before her had been divided in three: one passage continuing straight, one that branched off towards the left and one towards the right. The hallways in themselves appeared narrow in terms of width, but the blackened ceiling looked boundless.  
  
Cassandra took a step forward, testing. Then she decided to take the left passage.  
  
Weapons always at hand, she walked for a few minutes, stopped, listened and looked around her, then proceeded. She repeated this step numerous times when finally she thought she had heard footsteps from afar. Were the authors of those footsteps friend or foe, neither or even both? She followed the sound towards a wooden door, stopped all movements and listened very carefully but the footsteps had also stopped. Keeping her cool, she slowly reached for the knob knowing that kicking open the door might prove to be a mistake.  
  
The wooden door swung open with an exaggerated slowness and for an instant, she couldn't believe what she saw.  
  
It had probably been appropriate that she had taken a good look and imprinted the unbelievable image at the back of her mind to refer to later on in order to describe it to other; because the only reaction she could spare at that moment was to leap aside in order to avoid a mass of arrows. A rolling flip later, Cassandra steadied herself on one knee and shot out arrows of her own towards the swarming mass of bony adversaries. The soaring arrows shattered rows of the skeleton army with ease yet more seemed to be coming out of the door than she initially recalled seeing. She couldn't face all of them just standing like this in the middle of the corridor; someone or something could come up from behind her and she was fast running out of arrows. The fact that she glowed and they didn't wasn't very helpful either. It was frightening that the only thing indications to her opponents' positions were the glowing red orbs which no doubt served as eyes.  
  
Knowing this would be a losing fight if she didn't do anything different soon, the armored and still glowing Rogue shot out one last arrow before picking herself up and began running back the way she came. The drumming clatters behind her indicated that her assailants weren't too far away. A few arrows sped by faster than her but luckily, all missed.  
  
She picked up pace, grabbing two arrows that were shot at her on the way. By the time she had reached the intersecting opening by the stairs she was already in a mad sprint. Suddenly, she heard a male and human voice bellow from out of nowhere:  
  
"Get down!"  
  
As she dived to the ground, and twisted around, she saw a tall masculine form swinging something gigantic, instantly breaking the oncoming skeleton troop to millions of pieces. It took merely moments to take down what would've taken Cassandra twice the time, since she depended more on her dexterity and agility. The stranger, however, looked like he relied mostly on his large frame and strength. As she observed, he swung and charged, shoving his weapon, fists and feet wherever he thought would do damage.  
  
The rattle made by the pieces of bones hitting the ground soon stopped when all was still again. The skeleton army came no more and her possible newfound ally stood silently. Cassandra heard her own heart pumping and felt her own heavy breaths but it took her a while to finally regain herself. The man turned around, and helped her up without saying a word.  
  
He was glowing too, much like the way she was, probably by using the same spell; it was a very common incantation, easily remembered by both magic and non magic practitioners.  
  
The large object he was using to swing at the skeletons was a war axe, the ones that are usually big and therefore incredibly heavy. Therefore, she was right in assuming that the man possessed a great amount of strength and endurance.  
  
She studied him closely; his features were rugged with his short dark hair and days old stubbles. Whether he mocked all he has fought, considering them harmless or he simply didn't see the need of it, no armory was present on him, safe for a shoulder guard, strapped across his chest. Apart from that, he had knee guards and an axe. The rest of his clothing was composed of a shirt, pants, a belt and boots. The shirt was sleeveless and looked too tight on him, but it must've been hard to find clothing his size. The rest looked to be made out of durable leather, which suggested to the Rogue that the man wasn't poor, or was resourceful. He gave out a bold image, yet he seemed to be only a tad older than she was. Now that he war rage was past and his enemies slain, he almost seemed gentle, setting his weapon aside and aiding her to her feet the way a gentleman would.  
  
"Who are you? How did you get here?" She asked as she got up, those two questions were merely the tip of a long list she had for him. She wanted to know how he had managed to conveniently show up when she was in trouble, and how he fought as if he's faced those creatures beforehand. Before she had a chance to throw more questions at him, he hushed her with a single gesture of his finger at his lips.  
  
"Inquire later, the Butcher is close."  
  
Cassandra opened her mouth, wanting to say something else, but shut it just as soon. She stared at the newly arrived stranger as her mind churned in both suspicions and curiosity, wondering why he was so willing to offer help and why she didn't consider him a threat.  
  
He motioned silently for her to follow him down the corridor from before and she did so stealthily, picking up unstained arrows along the way and putting them into her quiver. The dark and cold hallways opened up into a single large hall. The hall looked like it used to be some sort of reception area for its immensity could scarcely withhold one or two thousands of people. The hall was empty and fact that there was another, a smaller room made of stone within it seemed a bit odd, throwing off the logic of the place's conception. A single door that led to the insides of the small room could be found right in front of them.  
  
"He sleeps. We must be swift in the killing."  
  
Without waiting for a response, he walked towards the wooden door and pushed it open. How did he know where the Butcher was? How did he come to the conclusions that it was asleep? Why was she actually waiting for answers? Cassandra wanted to stop him, but it was too late. A wave of putrid rotting and acrid condensed blood hit them both. The stench was so thick and awful, it merely knocked her to the ground.  
  
She had been in battles, fought wars, assisted sacrifices, but never, had she seen this, or smelt it. What was before her could only be described as a slaughter house whose owner wasn't prone on tidying up. The victims were unfortunately human, even though their present outlooks and the way their bodies bent suggested otherwise. There must have been at least fifty of them, lying around, some hung on walls, some hanging from the ceiling, some on racks and hooks and so on. All were stripped naked, sometimes even skin was taken away in the stripping. And so, the small room didn't only smell but was saturated with blood and flesh.  
  
Cassandra and the man stood before the entrance, speechless at the grotesque sight. Before they had done anything else, a deep gurgling growl came from within the room.  
  
"Hmm, fresh meat."  
  
She didn't understand why she didn't notice it before, but the demon known as the Butcher suddenly stepped out from the pile of fresh and some not so corpses, now all too visible. One of the things that suggested to Cassandra it was the Butcher was that he was the only living, moving, and breathing thing in that room. The second thing that told her it was him was his appearances: it was large and unevenly bulked with muscles. Claws were clearly visible on both its large bare feet and its massive paws. Save for the large bone devil-horns, its head was bare, revealing its evilly contorted face along with its crookedly arranged fangs. The only material similar to clothing was a cook's apron, stained with fresh, dried as well as coagulated blood. A few paler spots on his apron suggested that the piece of cloth had originally been white or beige. Of course, no butcher would be complete without his tools, therefore the Butcher that stood before them held a cleaver; its length was comparable to the Rogue's legs'.  
  
The Butcher began moving towards them, its huge legs thumping on the ground with wet fleshy sounds. That had immediately brought the new stranger and Cassandra out of their stupor, as they quickly got out of the suffocating room, with the large demon starting to get too close for their taste.  
  
As they set foot out of the Butcher's chamber, each of them took a direction opposite from one another and continued running. The monster's steps seemed to be gaining in speed. As Cassandra ran, she noticed the Butcher had opted for her to be his first victim. She had no idea where the stranger had disappeared to; she would've thought him more valiant and possibly more courteous. She took off into another corridor that led out the great hall, just opposite the one she had entered from. Deep rumbling growls came from behind her and saved her the trouble to look back and check whether the Butcher was still on her trail.  
  
The monster behind her made no sign of slowing down. He was carrying a few dozen pounds of muscle more than her after all, and had longer legs while she for one was running with a suit of armor. Things weren't exactly going in her favor. Thinking of something active rather than passive soon might be entitled; a ruse, a means of escape, or a means of trapping him.  
  
She passed by a flight of stairs that tunneled down into the ground. She didn't have time to wonder why the Dungeon gone down deeper into the ground now since she was informed that it held a single basement floor. Still continuing down the path she took, she was determined not to let anything stop her pace, for her own sake and that of Tristam's.  
  
"Over here!" Came the voice of the same stranger from earlier as it seemed to seep out of the obscurity from a constrict gap she barely noticed in the wall. She approached and was yanked in then held tightly in order to fit.  
  
"But-"  
  
"Shh, he might vicious but he has no wits. Wait and see." She heard him whisper.  
  
Cassandra waited, and she refused to breathe in case some malicious current would transport her breath to the Butcher's nostrils and in turn his attention to their hiding. The two stayed in the dark for moments that lasted forever, still, listening. As anticipated, heavy footsteps went loudly patting by along with growls and grunts.  
  
Somewhat in disbelief, Cassandra kept her eyes transfixed at the opening before her, knowing perfectly well that the stranger was doing the same. She looked at the giant flesh hued demon heading down the corridor when-  
  
"Hey! Over here you filthy abomination!" the stranger suddenly shouted out loud, pushing the Rogue out of the hiding in order to get out himself, exposing them both.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?!" She turned towards him.  
  
Meanwhile, the Butcher swerved around with amazing gracefulness, realizing he had been chasing thin air.  
  
He didn't answer and began running down the opposite direction.  
  
Sighing out of frustration and knowing she had no alternative, Cassandra sped after him, as fast as she could. Already the thumping was getting closer, she didn't even look back. She might have been well conditioned, but no one could run forever. After a sudden sharp right turn, they darted down the stony hallway. For the first time since she had set foot into the Dungeon, Cassandra had a feeble thought about where she was, and if she were ever going to find her way out again. Every single hallway looked just like the other; it was no great mystery that Kathleen had gotten lost.  
  
The Butcher was catching up again; she could practically feel it's heaving breaths on her back, almost as if the air it breathed was of acidic nature, permeating through her armor. Up ahead, the stranger suddenly had vanished into a corridor. At least she was almost certain she saw him enter therein. Somewhat confused, Cassandra continued running, but something heavy had hit her and sent her tumbling and rolling. Before she was able to stop and get up she heard a terrible cry, not only in that nature of the cry's owner but in its sound; it was like thousands screams of men, women, and children all merged to form a sound so alien it was nearly unreal. That cry seemed to have come from the monster, the rendered version of the devil itself, the Butcher - that was chasing her.  
  
Getting back up, the Rogue went back the way she came cautiously, now holding bow and arrow in her hands.  
  
There she found the stranger plucking his axe out from the wall. Next to him laid the Butcher, motionless and impaled by the many spikes of a metallic gate that, from the looks, has dropped from the endless ceiling. Finally, Cassandra was able to notice her own breathing and her own heart beating.  
  
The stranger calmly leaned his giant axe on his shoulder, still keeping his eyes on the body of the Butcher. He was probably finding it just as hard to believe: the Butcher was dead.  
  
"I told you I know what I was doing." He said, after a while.  
  
Cassandra had put her own weapons away. For something that fed on human flesh, the Butcher certainly didn't bleed much. As a matter of fact, he wasn't bleeding at all.  
  
She couldn't help but frown at the image, still trying to seize how much suffering this monster had caused and how little it had gone through in its own death. Amazing how something was capable of inflicting so much pain and death, and yet couldn't survive a small of dose what of the same thing in return. Even evil wasn't invincible.  
  
It took her all her remaining effort, but she was finally able to take her gaze away from the hypnotically gruesome image to look at the stranger.  
  
"Who are you, how do you know so much of this place?" She finally asked. Her voice was no longer monotonous and reserved, but tinged with wonder.  
  
"The name's Gareth," He responded quietly, "And I'll tell you the rest as soon as we get out of here and into Tristam." There was a pause, and then he smirked. "The Dungeons aren't a safe place to be."  
  
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*Next Chapter: Poisoned Water 


End file.
